


This Scares Him

by deduction019



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Eventual Johnbastian, Fingering, First Kisses, First Time, Fluffiness in Later Chapers, Fuckloads of Angst, Lots of Angst, M/M, Maybe Drunk Abuse, Might be OOC in the future. When I write fluff I go out sometimes, NO rape, Other Sexual Acts Not Involving Bondage, Post-Reichenbach, SHITLOADS OF ANGST, Sebastian Being Piss Drunk, Sexual Content, suicide triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deduction019/pseuds/deduction019
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran goes to kill John Watson out of bitterness and finds him just as broken as he is. The ex-sniper and the ex-doctor bond over being broken men. Eventual Johnbastian. </p><p>Told from dual points of view after the fourth chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snipers

**Author's Note:**

> PS. John always remembering the time means something. /What/ it means will be revealed later.

John Watson’s in the living room. Sitting across from Sherlock’s chair. Again. 

 

He wishes Sherlock would be sitting there. Wishes things could be the way they used to be.

Three days. Seventy two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty six seconds ago, his best friend committed suicide. His timing shouldn’t be that precise. This scares him. 

The gun is pressed to his head, third time in three days. Simple revolver. Simple death. The pull of a trigger, and he’s with Sherlock. 

He took his pulse. 

Three days ago, he took Sherlock’s pulse. 

Thing is, he didn’t have one. 

His skin was still warm. 

Fuck. 

The nightmares started eight hours after Sherlock’s lanky body hits the ground. 

They haven’t stopped. 

In the seventy two hours, forty nine minutes, and thirty six seconds that he’s gone on living while Sherlock Holmes was dead, he’s gotten about fifteen minutes of sleep. 

Tea.  He’s tried drinking it to keep himself awake. 

There’s no one to drink it with. 

Tea can’t wake him up from this hell. 

Nothing can. 

The gun is pressed to his head, third time in three days. 

Only he knows how much he wants to pull the trigger. 

He _really_ wants to pull the trigger. 

_I loved him._

He still loves him.

It hurts more now. 

It’s always hurt. Sherlock was married to his work. 

Now he’s married to the dirt that’s piled six feet on top of him. 

Lestrade has stopped by once a day. John doesn’t talk. He doesn’t need to. He knows that the Detective Inspector is there to see if he’s still alive. Talking doesn’t need to happen. 

It doesn’t matter if it needs to happen, anyways. It won’t. 

People like him—people who believed Moriarty were the reason for Sherlock being dead. 

Dead… Gone…  

He’s alone. Alone and so fucking lonely. 

Alone doesn’t protect you. It makes things worse. 

Sherlock was wrong. About this one thing, he was dead, dead wrong. 

He closes his eyes and is about to pull the trigger. Third time’s a charm, right—

He hears a shuffle of feet in the doorway. The small sound scares him so damn much he almost accidentally blows his brain to bits. Fumbling with the gun, he points it at the door. He’d been in such a state he didn’t notice that the person there had gotten in. 

Wait. He locked the door. He locked the door because three days was three days too many and he was done. Whoever is standing there picked the lock. 

He hopes to fuck its Sherlock. He cocks the gun anyways, in case it isn’t. He opens his eyes. 

Sebastian Moran is standing in the doorway, looking more than a bit confused. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” he spat out, and Sebastian looks at the gun warily. They both know that John won’t shoot. He wouldn’t dare. 

“I’m supposed to kill you,” he said, doing a rather impressive job of keeping his voice cold and not confused like his face. 

“Well, Sherlock’s dead and gone, so you can fuck right off, Moran,” he hissed, and lowered the gun. Finally, he surveyed the man. 

Looked the same as when he had seen him the night at the pool. Not really. Hair was a bit more messed up, dark circles had formed under his eyes, sniper stance was just a bit more hunched. His eyes were empty. Hollow. Not really seeing. 

He had loved Jim. 

Well, wasn’t that the fucking discovery of the century. They were the same man. John had lost a sociopath and Sebastian had lost a psychopath. The irony makes him have to fight off the urge to kill the both of them. 

“My boss is gone, too. Just following orders, Watson. You should know about those, coming from the army,” he states, and since his gun is lowered he leans against the frame of the door casually. 

“Your boss is dead. His orders don’t matter.” 

“You helped kill him.” 

“How in the fuck did I do that?” 

“Being friends with Sherlock. Jumped to save you. Moriarty gave me orders to shoot you if he didn’t die.” 

John feels as though he’s been gutted with a spoon. 

“So then he shot himself, because Sherlock would have figured out the code to call us off,” Sebastian snarled, and walked in the living room. For the slightest of seconds, John thinks the sniper will walk up to him and snap his neck. 

No such luck. 

The bastard sits in the chair in front of him. Sherlock’s chair. It’s like he fucking knows. 

He’s too calm. Too stoic. John needs to evoke some emotion out of him. 

They fucked like rabbits. Didn’t take much for John to figure it out. Jim’s lips got too close to John’s ear that night at the pool and lo and behold the little red target the rifle emitted went to Jim’s chest. That action didn’t make someone happy at all. Jim did it on purpose. 

A bastard, in love with another bastard. Figures. 

“You shouldn’t give your fuck buddy – slash – boss so much credit, Moran. The guy liked to make an entrance. Figures he’d make an explosive exit as well.” 

Sebastian tenses in his chair. “Shut the fuck up, Watson,” he spits, fingers gripping the fabric on the arms of the chair entirely too hard, so hard his knuckles are turning white. 

Bingo. 

“Do you wank to pictures of him?” he asks innocently, ignoring the last comment. “Oh, that’s right. There probably are no pictures of him. Ooh, maybe there are. On the newspaper he was in. Is that what you do, Moran? Copy off the newspaper a few times each week so you can give yourself a shitty hand job and come on his picture? He’d be so fucking proud of you. Of his bitch, his whore, who even in death still can’t get come to drip out of his dick unless he’s there,” he says with a sick kind of malice, a malice that makes his mouth turn upward in a devilish smirk. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Sebastian roars, and shoots up from the chair, pointing the handgun he had out right at John’s head. The barrel is almost as close to his head as when he was holding his own gun there. 

“No need to hold a gun to my head, Moran,” he says, voice now weary. “I can do that just fine by myself. Although, if you’d like, you can shoot me, save me the blood on my hands. They're covered in the red shit already,” he says, and thinks of the red thumbprint he left on Sherlock’s pulse point. 

Sebastian’s face seems to almost contort. Maybe because the fact that they’re so fucking alike. Definitely not in sympathy. 

“Well,” John sighs after a few minutes, and gets up from the couch. “If you’re not going to shoot me, then you’re of no use to either me or your dead boss. I’m going upstairs. Get out of my flat, and lock the door on the way out. Figures you should do that, seeing as how it was locked when you let yourself in, and the fact that you’re unwanted company.” 

He walks to his room, not giving a single fuck about the sniper standing behind him. All he knows is that he goes into his room. As he closes the door, the fact that Sebastian still didn’t put him out of his misery overwhelms him. He stands close to the door, hearing footsteps go down the stairs. The door to the front of the flat shuts, and he hears the snicker of a lock after. He’s always had good hearing. 

He collapses on the floor. Why didn’t the bastard put him out of his misery? Why, why, why? 

He curls into a ball and lets out howling sobs, the tears not stopping for a good hour and a half. 

It’s now been seventy four hours, fifteen minutes, and twenty three seconds since Sherlock’s died. 

He should have been dead seventy two hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty three seconds ago. 

He’s nothing without Sherlock. He never will be. 

And he'll always count how long it's been since he's lost the will to live. 

He's the walking dead.

He doesn’t uncurl from his fetal position for three more hours, and then lies on the bed. He takes a piss when he needs to. 

John doesn’t come out of room until forty eight hours later. 

It’s been one hundred and twenty two hours, thirty two minutes, and nineteen seconds since Sherlock’s died. 


	2. Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sebastian being their broken selves.

It’s been one hundred and twenty two hours, thirty two minutes, and nineteen seconds since Sherlock’s died.

John goes downstairs. He’s still counting. He’ll never stop.

He goes to make himself a cup of coffee. It’s morning now. He still hasn’t gotten any sleep.

He flips on the kettle and isn’t thinking about anything. He’s hollow.

Nothing is worth it anymore.

Minutes later, he spoons the instant coffee in his cup and flavors it to his liking. It’s changed, now.

He now likes his coffee black, with two sugars.

This scares him.

Sitting down and taking a sip of the coffee, he happens to look over to where his gun is. Or rather,  _was._ It's not there anymore.

Motherfucker.

Sebastian took the goddamn gun with him when he left.

John knows where another one is. His Browning is in his room.

Of course he's not going to use  _his_ gun.

That would defeat the entire purpose of everything. 

He needs Sherlock's gun. 

Going into a gun shop to get another revolver like Sherlock's would be a death sentence in itself. 

His entire life is, now, he realizes.

John downs the rest of his coffee and sits there for a few seconds, contemplating on what to do. The option of going and stabbing Sebastian with a butter knife is very high on the list. Either way, he’d have to go to the morgue.

The ride to the morgue is terribly familiar.

The difference is that there’s no consulting detective next to him.

Fifteen minutes later, he goes into the morgue. Molly always leaves the doors to the lab unlocked when she’s on her lunch break. Such a shame.

He goes into the evidence bucket and finds Jim Moriarty’s phone. Poor sods, they should have Moriarty’s phone in a damn bulletproof case. That’s stupid on their part.

He turns it on. There’s no passcode: no one would dare break into Jim Moriarty’s phone. He’s not anyone.

He’s really not.

He scrolls through the contacts and finds the contact named ‘Tiger.’

Every other contact has an actual name.

Figures Sebastian would have a pet name. He was Jim’s pet.

He puts the number in his phone and turns the dead criminal mastermind’s phone back off. He puts it back in the bag and seals it. Of course he wouldn’t take it. He’s not that stupid.

He goes back outside and gets in the cab; he told the driver to wait for him.

The drive back is just as horrible.

Coming home from the morgue before was always good. Either Sherlock had a lead, or the case was solved.

They’d walk into the flat and Sherlock would be happy—he’s just solved a case or gotten the final lead, after all. They’d pause a bit in the stairwell and John would look over at the detective. He’d look beautiful, happy and gleeful as he was, mop of hair falling just right, crystal eyes shining like the stars in the sky. And John would have to physically hold himself from pinning the taller man against the wall and kissing him languidly.

The doctor snaps back into the present.

He won’t have to hold himself back anymore.

He opens the door to the cab and dry heaves twice into the street. The cabbie wants to know if he’s okay.

He’s really not.

He throws some bills to the cabbie and gets out.

He enters the flat and stands at the foot of the stairs.

He really doesn’t have to hold himself back anymore.

He goes into the bathroom and spends an hour throwing up and crying over the toilet.

It’s now been one hundred and twenty four hours, eighteen minutes, and forty three seconds since Sherlock’s died.

He wants the counting to end soon.

Badly.

He leans against the bathtub, taking his phone out of his pocket. He starts to scroll down his contacts.

He gets to Sebastian’s. He decides to not name Sebastian’s contact with his actual name either.

Sebastian is named ‘Fucker’ in John’s phone.

He rather likes the nickname. Suits the sniper.

He sends out a text.

_What the fuck did you do with my gun, asshole? –JW_

Sebastian answers back rather quickly.

_I don’t even want to know how you got my number. –SM_

_Then don’t ask. –JW_

_Your fucked up attitude won’t get you your gun back, Watson. –SM_

John can tell that Sebastian is probably smiling. Fucker.

_I took them, by the way. –SM_

John is confused.

_Pardon? –JW_

_You asked what I did with your gun. I took them. –SM_

Asshole.

_Give it the fuck back. It's my property. –JW_

_Is it? This isn’t an army doctor’s gun. This is a little girl’s gun. –SM_

The sniper’s actually pretty fucking smart. John doesn’t like this realization.

_It’s still mine. Well, it is now. –JW_

He doesn’t realize he’s just revealed who the gun belongs to until the message is already sent. A litany of curses pass through his mouth, and for a split second he raises the phone to throw it into the wall.

The phone vibrates with Sebastian’s reply right when he’s about to release it.

He really wants Sherlock's gun back, so he lowers the phone and glances at the screen.

_Why did Sherlock want a gun? He had you. –SM_

Ouch. Another knife to the gut.

Everything’s a knife to the gut now. Every memory, every mention of the detective digs a deeper hole in his already hollow body. The telly’s been turned off for an indefinite amount of time.

_He liked to shoot the wall when he was bored. Even I couldn’t cure his boredom, fucker. –JW_

He couldn’t do a lot of things for Sherlock. Including save him.

_Jim liked to shoot the walls when he was bored too. Well, at the wall around my head. –SM_

John stares at the two messages. Since when did this become a fucking therapy session, recalling memories of the loved ones they lost? He doesn’t like this.

They’re exactly the same person. He knows Sebastian didn’t willingly write the memory either.

_Back to my gun, bitch. Give them back. –JW_

_Maybe in a bit. Wouldn’t want you blowing your brains out as soon as I gave it back. –SM_

_Why do you fucking care? –JW_

_If I’m going to suffer, you’re going to suffer with me. –SM_

John’s jaw clenches. He should go shoot Sebastian.

He doesn’t know where he lives, though. Fuck.

_Fuck you. –JW_

_Talk to you later, Johnny. –SM_

Johnny. What a fucking tit. He hates the name already.

He also doesn't want there to be a later. For more than one reason. 

He exits out of their conversation and sets the phone on the sink as to not throw it across the room.

He goes into his room and lies on the bed. He starts crying. This time he’s silent.

He wants to be taken out of his misery.

Even his misery won’t make him strong (or weak) enough to go into his army box and get his Browning out. 

Lestrade’s already told him that none of the gun shops around London will sell him a gun. He can't even have his Browning, according to law. He’s watching out for John. He cares.

John hates that he cares.

Slowly, he drifts off to sleep, still crying.

It’s been one hundred and twenty six hours, nine minutes, and fifty seven seconds since Sherlock’s died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> The reason for John's counting still hasn't been revealed yet. Sorry.


	3. Outbursts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John being really messed up.  
> And Sebastian being an ass. (Or is he being an ass?)

It’s been exactly a week, five hours, and three minutes since Sherlock’s died. John’s stopped counting the seconds. It’s gotten too intricate. 

John was never good with intricacies. Not like Sherlock. 

Sherlock. Who left him. Because he wasn’t good enough. Because, underneath it all, he was just like everyone else in Sherlock’s life. The only difference was that he lived with the man and put up with his bullshit. 

He was nothing. He is nothing.  

He’s abandoned. He’s always been abandoned by the people he loves. His dad, his sister, who would have a bottle of scotch over him any day, and now Sherlock—all of them, all of them abandoned him. 

The one person who didn’t want to died. His mom. His mom died when he was five.

Who knows, maybe she wanted to leave too. 

It’s so hard to get up out of bed. To drag his feet across the carpet and make himself move. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t done it in two days. 

He has to do it now. His texts to Greg have been beyond satisfactory. He’s coming over today. John has to make it look like he’s halfway alive. 

Of course, he isn’t. Rather, he’s three quarters dead. 

The only thing keeping him from being dead is Sebastian, and the fact that the damn sniper nicked _his_ gun and won’t give it back. 

He hates him for that. 

He goes down and boils a kettle, because he knows it’s natural for the doctor to offer tea to anyone who steps through the door. So very natural. 

This is a performance. And he has to make it work. 

Minutes after his first cuppa, Lestrade knocks on the door. John pads down the steps and opens it. Lestrade’s eyes are wide and worried; he really does care for the doctor. 

God, John really does hate that he cares. 

“Hey,” Lestrade mumbles in greeting, and shuffles nearly uncomfortably. The detective inspector knows he’s not wanted. John’s eyes are red—he hasn’t gotten any sleep in a week. Maybe if he adds it all together he can tell Lestrade about eight. Maybe. Who knows? The doctor simply nods in greeting, and he simply turns and walks up the stairs. 

He can hear Lestrade’s steps, albeit hesitant, follow closely behind. He’ll take what he can get, John realizes. 

People need to stop caring. It’s disgustingly unbecoming. 

The realization that he’s starting to become like Sherlock washes over him, and makes him pause momentarily at the top of the stairs. 

This scares him. He's very scared.

“Everything okay, mate?” Lestrade calls, voice just as worried as ever. 

“Fine,” he says, and walks into the kitchen. “Care for a cup of tea?” he asks Lestrade. 

“Yeah,” he says, and the relief in his voice tells John he’s doing a good job. He makes the cuppas, letting his steep for a bit longer than usual, and gives Lestrade his mug. Lestrade sits down to drink it, and looks at John worriedly.

“How’re you holding up?” 

What kind of question is that? His best friend abandoned and committed suicide in front of him. 

“Fine.” 

He’s such a liar. Lestrade knows it. 

“John…” he starts, and then John looks up at him with an icy glare in his eyes. He bursts. 

“Don’t do that! Don’t say my name in that tone! Don’t you dare act like everything’s okay! You expect me to be okay? You expect me to be over his death? For me to just go back to normal a week later? Why? Why do you expect that? Is it because you have?” he shouts, and by this time his vision is red and blurred with anger and tears and he’s standing up and towering over Lestrade. “Is that why you expect me to get over him? Because you already are? It’s not like Sherlock ever had a decent relationship with any of you, anyways. All any of you ever did was use him because of his intellect. You never cared to ever try and establish a relationship. You let them, you let all of those worthless gits make fun of him, and call him freak, and you all treated him like everyone else treats him: like utter SHIT. I loved him. I LOVED HIM. All you ever did was believe that he was poisoning those kids. You all sold him out, you believed that he was some coldhearted freak!” he roars, and his hands are already over his face, and his words are being heaved out in between his sobs. “But I guess I stood in there with all of you. I guess I was at the same level, because he had me and then chose to die anyways,” he says, voice hushed and hurt and broken and filled to the brim with betrayal. “I was nothing to him, just like the lot of you,” he hisses. 

John wipes tears away and sees that Lestrade’s cup is on the table and he has two hands over his face now, just like John. The detective inspector’s shoulders are shaking, and John should feel bad, but he doesn’t. 

“Leave. Just… just leave,” he says in a voice that’s becoming quiet too quickly. “Maybe in a month or so, I’ll end up getting a pint with you, alright?” 

Lestrade is still crying and shaking, but he nods his head. 

Of course. He still cares. 

John knows he’s made the man feel like shit. But he’s not heartless. He’ll make up for it when he’s a bit better. If he gets better. He won’t, though.

He must have forgotten the fact that Lestrade helped Sherlock through his cocaine, that he did care, that he was just as broken as he was, that Sherlock chose to go and help him to help London, that he didn’t use the detective for anything. 

Maybe, he really is heartless. A heartless machine. 

Just like he called Sherlock on the day he died. 

He wants today to be the day. He really does, goddammit all to hell. But he doesn’t have that FUCKING gun.

He goes to the hallways leading to his room and stops in the doorway. “Let yourself out. I’m going to my room,” he rasps, and walks towards his room, tea and inspector forgotten. 

It’s now been one week, five hours, and fifty five minutes since Sherlock threw himself off the building. 

John sees his phone on the bedside table and ignores it. He hears Lestrade’s steps on the stairs and hears the flat door close, and collapses on the bed. Thing is, his tears are done for right now. He pushed them all out in front of Lestrade, and used them in front of him. He pushes his head into the pillow and just closes his eyes, wanting this to be over, wanting the pain to be gone. Wanting the fact that Sherlock left him to be gone. 

Five minutes later, his phone goes off. He grunts. It better not be Lestrade. He picks his head up and reaches his phone with the laziness of wanting to be dead. 

When John sees who the message is from, he damn well wishes it would be from Lestrade. 

The message is from Sebastian. 

_So, are you dead yet? –SM_

Asshole. Absolute asshole. 

Yes. I brought my phone with me to Hell and there’s good service here. –JW

_No, fucker, I’m not dead. –JW_

_I’m surprised. –SM_

_Why? –JW_

_You say you want to die. Obviously you don’t have the ambition you so flaunted when we met. –SM_

_Fuck you. I do want to die. You still have my gun. –JW_

_If you really wanted to die, you’d find another way. –SM_

John types out  _I don't want another way. I want it to be with Sherlock's gun,_  but then deletes it. 

God, John knows it’s true… he really does. He knows that what Sebastian said was true. He had no way, though. Sarah probably wouldn’t even let him in his office so that he could sneak some morphine, he couldn’t buy any more bullets, and all of the chemicals Sherlock had in the living room and kitchen were taken away. 

The only things left were in his room, and John wasn’t going in there. 

Maybe he could find a way. But he was so unwilling to get up, to do anything, that he knows he won’t find any other way besides the bullets. 

He decides to make Sebastian think he has other ways anyways. Just to toy with him. To make him mad that they may not be able to suffer together. 

He writes out another text message. This one he sends.

_Oh, I’m a doctor, I’ll find another way. –JW_

As soon as he sends the message he turns off the phone and chucks it back on his bedside table. 

He really does want to die. 

It hurts so much. 

He needs that gun.

He wants the easy way out. Right now, he wants that. 

The easy way out. With Sherlock's gun. Something like sentiment, he supposes. Sherlock would scoff. 

Maybe in a few days he’ll go out of his way to die. Make it a bit more explosive.

Like Sherlock. And Jim. 

Maybe. 

He curls into his fetal position and doesn’t move. 

He swears he can feel his heartbeat in him, and that’s the only thing that reminds him that he still has a heart by the way he’s feeling. 

It’s now been one week, six hours, and twenty minutes since Sherlock ripped himself away from the world and took John’s heart with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... the reason still hasn't been revealed.  
> Also, it's not out there... the reason, it just becomes apparent... and the moment is rather obvious.


	4. Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Told from Sebastian's point of view. 
> 
> Sebastian's torn and broken. Just like John.

**Sebastian**

Jim. Jim Fucking Moriarty. Leave it to fucking him to fucking shoot his brains out while all his faithful ass self could do was fucking watch.

He hated Jim. ~~He always had~~.

He hated Jim now. There was a difference.

He hated Jim because the night before he died was the night where he had seen him at his nicest. The night where Jim was sweet when they made love. He thought Jim was just having one of his normal ever so changeable moods.

Well, when they _fucked_. Since apparently Jim didn’t love him. Not if he killed himself the next day.

 _Right_.

He didn’t bother to keep track of how long it had been. Nine days or something like that. Yeah, nine. A week and two days. One bottle of whiskey a day and there’s eight in the bin. He hasn't drank one today. 

He will.

Doesn’t bother counting the time. Doesn’t matter. Time. What the fuck even was time? Measuring something that mattered. Life. Yeah, well, except life didn’t matter anymore. He wanted to kill himself.

Like John did.

John. Watson. He could swear he’s heard that name before.

Before he strapped him to a Semtex vest for  _dearest_ Jim.

Nope. The whiskey won’t let him remember. He’s not sober enough to remember.

The soberest he was in that week was texting John, only so that he could sound decent. Didn’t even know why the fuck he wanted to sound decent. He was making John go through the pain with him.

Nothing decent about that.

Nothing was decent about him. A fucking army brat was all he was. Someone who didn’t matter. A trigger happy maniac. Figures he’d work for Jim Fucking Moriarty.

Sebastian’s on the couch. He hadn’t slept for days. Really, he never slept. Jim would always have him running around. He’d be lucky with eight hours a week. 

He’s gotten about an hour in this week. It hasn’t affected him.

Then again, just about nothing else has.

He misses Jim. He’ll never admit it to anyone but the man he is with an entire bottle of whiskey in him.

He won’t admit it now. Not since it’s been eight hours since he’s had a fucking drink.

On instinct, he still checks his phone every hour. If there was one thing that Jim taught him, it was to never, ever let a text slip him. If it was a phone call, couldn’t miss it.

There were consequences for that, if he did. Now, Jim liked him out of all the other snipers, but that didn’t mean that his surname wasn’t ‘Moriarty.’

If he took two hours to answer a text, well, he’d spend two hours in fucking orgasm denial. If he missed a call, well, he never found out what that was, after they had actually started fucking. He was glad he didn’t. The first time he missed a call, Jim branded JM into his side.

Hurt like a motherfucker, it did.

He was Jim’s after that. It was a while after that when Jim finally came onto him, and they fucked for the first time.

Sex with Jim was fucking fantastic. Hard and fast and dirty, everything that didn’t matter in real relationships, and everything that mattered to fuck buddies, or rather, boss-and-coworker with benefits.

Well, it was _usually_ fantastic. Sometimes Jim would be in one of his moods. Sebastian had fucked up a mission once, and that was the day that knife play got invented. Probably the most painful shag of his life.

Then one of Sebastian’s protégées had fucked up. That was the day, well… rather… that day and the next twelve hours of the next day Sebastian spent sitting on the bed with a vibrator pressed against his prostate as Jim whipped him mercilessly.

He tried to forget about that day, but the nine new scars he gained just wouldn’t let him.

Jim was working on his web, too, while he punished him. Was texting an important client, he later revealed. 

The web. That fucking web. It was falling apart. Going to shit. Absolute shit. No one came to him. No one expected him to be able to take Moriarty’s place. Not even he expected to keep the web going. It wasn’t even a hope. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to take Jim’s place.

Jim was always one of a kind, be it in a good or bad way.

To him it was both, since he was a bit fucked in the head too.

 

***

 

Sebastian snapped out of the gaze he didn’t know he was in. He was still looking at his phone, the screen long turned off on its own and reflecting back his hollow reflection.

/Goddammit, Sebastian/, he told himself. /What did I tell you about remembering shit about him/? 

Remembering hurt. Even the painful things. Especially the painful things. Because they were pieces of evidence that just proved that if Jim would have loved him, none of this would have happened.

None of it. Not the scars, not the memories.

The sniper bites his lip, on the verge of tears that have never really stopped. He shouldn’t be crying. Shouldn’t be on the verge of crying. Shouldn’t be mourning Jim.

He should be happy.

Right.

As fucking if.

He turns his phone back on and decides to go to the most recent conversation he has saved there. John Watson.

Why… why in fuck did that name sound so damn familiar? He remembers the name from a really long time ago. He hadn’t had a fucking clue before, but remembering Jim did that to him. Sober him up.

Figures he’d still have the power to sober him. Maybe Sebastian didn’t wank to his pictures like John said, but he let the very dead Jim nearly control every other aspect of his life.

Right. John.

John, whose gun he had. It was a simple revolver, really. It wasn’t really his gun, though, was it? It was Sherlock’s. This is the gun whose bullets had probably littered the wall in the flat. He’d seen that. It reminded him so much of Jim when he walked in the flat that he almost turned around and walked the fuck out.

Jim shot up shit. Usually around where Sebastian’s head was, but he did shoot up shit. Shot up his walls, shot up the ceiling. For a posh man, his walls had to be fixed quite a lot. 

/Focus, Sebastian/.

John hadn’t answered him for two days. 

His last message to him was: _Oh, I’m a doctor, I’ll find another way. –JW_

Going off of what he saw when he went to the flat, he knew that there was a rather big chance that John might keep that damn promise of his.

For some reason, he didn’t want him to.

Because he wanted him to suffer. Because he was becoming a soulless git like his boss.

John can’t die. Not now. He can’t. He can’t kill himself, he can’t. He can’t take himself out of this world, goddammit-

He doesn’t know why, but he chooses to call him rather than text him.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

John picks up on the third ring.

“The fuck do you want?” his tired voice asks him.

He’s happier than he should be at the crude remark, and can’t find it in himself to come back with a retort that has the word ‘fuck’ in it.

“To make sure that you’re still kicking and suffering.” He almost chokes on the last word because that's exactly what he's doing, he's suffering, damn him. His voice is rough, strong. Entirely too deceiving. If John would be here, he’d definitely see that.

John’s not here. So he doesn’t.

“Mmm. Well, I am,” he says, voice hollow.

John sounds so fucking empty. So fucking empty, and it reminds Sebastian so much of himself that he bites his lip and takes a soundless breath.

“Good.”

“Anything else you _want_ , Sebastian?” the doctor asks roughly.

“Not really, no.”

It’s silent for a few seconds.

“Why the fuck do you _care_ , anyways?” he suddenly asks. John knows that something is… not as it seems.

Sebastian probably does too. He chooses not to see it.

Not yet. He doesn’t realize that he _needs_ John, simply because of the fact that John has been through what he has. He saw the one prominent person in his life kill himself.

He’s just like Sebastian. Sebastian can’t lose… that part of himself. The part of himself that’s involuntarily implanted itself inside of John.

Without John, he’s completely alone.

“I don’t. Misery loves company,” he picks, and it’s entirely true, really. Honestly, it is. So true. He doesn’t _care_ about John.

He’s never had a _real_ relationship in his life. Never really _cared_ for anyone. Except for Jim. In a really fucked up way.

So no, he doesn’t care.

There’s more silence on the phone. He can tell that John is trying to process what he’s said, trying to come up with a response that will either hurt Sebastian more or hurt him just a bit less.

What he says surprises him.

“It sure does,” John says, and it’s a whisper. If the sniper so wished, he could pretend that he didn’t hear it. That John didn’t admit to it.

“Mm,” he hums monotonously.

To anyone else, it would be nothing.

To both of them, it’s an indication. A signal that means that Sebastian heard him, and has accepted what he’s said.

They hate each other, yet they’ve developed some connection where they can communicate with grunts and hums.

It’s weird.

And Sebastian hates the fuck out of it.

John chooses not to say anymore and simply hangs up, leaving Sebastian to hear the tone that wouldn’t end unless he hangs his phone up.

He doesn’t hang up for a while. He likes the empty tone.

Reminds him of him.

After five minutes, he hangs up. He sets the phone down and then lays on the couch, looking up at the ceiling, but not really looking.

He misses Jim.

He also needs John.

And Sebastian hates the fuck out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't know if I want to correlate between Sebastian and John as narrators, one every other chapter. I don't know if I can do Sebastian the hardcore justice he deserves, and keep in his character. The decision will be made by the next chapter. 
> 
> This hiatus has been rather long, and I really am sorry it took this long to get a chapter up. 
> 
> Saying that, I hope I've done you all the justice you deserve for waiting, and I hope you all liked it. :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading. <3 
> 
> -deduction019


	5. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in denial about something--a certain sniper.

 

**John**

 

It’s been two weeks and eight hours since Sherlock’s died. It still hurts, badly, and John has spent nearly all of his free time curled into a fetal position on his bed. Just yesterday, he returned to work. All he really did was paperwork. Sarah thought it would be best for him. It probably was. Sarah’s been constantly worried, and Greg is probably only texting him just to make sure he’s _there_.  His constant caring is still unbecoming, and John knows that the inspector can see that in every one word response he gets.

John knows he should be trying to make amends with the man—after all, he reduced him to tears and basically blamed him for Sherlock’s death. The time still hasn’t come for him to care—

No. /Care/ is a horrible way to put that. He does care. About Greg, Molly, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, hell, even Anderson and Donovan. He cares about Mike, and all of his war mates; he cares about Sarah, and all of his exes. The problem is that he hasn’t found the strength to show that he still does care. It’s different, it’s so different. 

If they only knew—the dishes haven’t been done (Mrs. Hudson’s done them, bless her), he hasn’t even drank a good cuppa since the detective’s death—it usually gets cold, and then it becomes shit. If they only knew that he doesn’t have the strength to do ANYTHING, they would realize that he’s still in shock. 

He needs a shock blanket. 

No, he needs Sherlock. There’s such a difference. 

His phone goes off, and he realizes that it’s the alarm. John rises out of bed and uses the bathroom, because his bodily functions can’t be stopped like he wants them to be, and then looks at himself in the mirror. 

He’s a fucking fright. It’s so sad. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is ragged. He’s aged ten years in two weeks, it looks like. His lips are twisted into a permanent, heartbroken expression, and his tremor has come back. Of course it has, he's in constant stress. Well, pain. Same thing.

The limp is coming in the near future. He can feel it, damn his leg. 

Meeting Sherlock took the damn thing away—figures that his death would bring it right back.

His eyes suddenly tear up and he’s heaving a sob as he sits down on the edge of the tub and drops his head in his hands. 

He misses the detective so much.

He decides to take a shower, the hot water washing over him and doing absolutely nothing to his tensed body. 

 

***

 

An hour later, he’s dressed and sitting in his room and sees a faint blush light up the morning sky. He silently curses the sun for shining even though Sherlock’s dead. 

Like every other day, he makes a cuppa but after he’s stopped thinking about Sherlock’s death long enough to come back to the real world, the tea is cold. 

After sitting there for two more hours, it’s seven in the morning. He takes out his phone and goes to look at his messages. He sees Greg’s name and exits out. He doesn’t want to see that the man cares for him and wants him to get better. As if it was really /that/ easy. 

He touches the call icon on his phone and his history comes up. “Fucker” is the first name on his list. Had this been any other time, John would have probably smiled. 

This isn’t any other time, so he doesn’t smile. 

He flashes back to their last call. Why he’d ever admit that he believes in the statement ‘misery loves company,’ he’ll never know. He doesn’t like it. 

He’ll never tell Sebastian that he was nearly relieved when the sniper called. He needed to hear that someone else was still suffering, still going through the traumatic experience that he was. 

He won’t even admit to himself that the fact that someone else is out there, devastated because the one person that comprised of the entirety of their life killed themselves is somewhat of a fucked up comfort to him. 

He doesn’t need Sebastian. Sebastian is just a medium. The pain is what he needs. John needs pain. Pain to cover more pain. It really does sound about right. 

Selfish, but right. 

He flashes back to Sebastian’s actual voice—the deep, rough voice that sounds so hollow. The hollowness reminds him of him. That’s quite sad, too. It’s not really a good thing that he can only compare their voices. 

He’s forgotten the fact that the sniper actually showed up there those days ago to kill him—that should have an immense effect on things, but it doesn’t. 

Sebastian’s pain takes up entirely too much of his time, and he doesn’t realize that he’s been sitting there, thinking about things too much, for far too much time until Sarah calls him. 

“John? Are you coming into work today?” she asks, voice sweet and caring. John hates it. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Sorry, I got up late.” What a liar he is. Couldn’t very well say “I was thinking about my dead friend and a sniper that I’ve come to need even though he once had intentions to kill me.” 

“It’s fine, John. All fine. So… you’re coming in then?” 

“Yeah. I’ll be there in thirty.” 

“All… alright.” Her voice is so fucking hesitant and caring, damn her. 

“See you then.”

“Yes.” 

He hangs up and slides his phone in his pocket, noticing that he hadn’t found the strength to even charge his phone in these past few days. The damn icon at the top of the screen is blinking in agony, the phone barely being alive, hanging onto its last tendrils in life. 

The doctor basically rips the charger out of the outlet by his bed and winds it up into a wretched looking ball that not even a cat would play with before slipping it into his pocket and sliding his coat on. He makes sure that he has his keys before exiting the flat. 

He turns around and starts saying bye to Sherlock before stopping at the door, mouth wide open. 

_Oh god._

John doesn’t know if he’s starting to talk to air, or if he really thought that Sherlock was still in the flat. 

This scares him. 

He slams the door shut, and by the time he’s hailed a cab his tears have already stained the collar on his shirt. 

He’s controlled himself by the time he gets to the clinic. 

Another day, another dollar. 

He nods at Sarah when he goes in and finds a stack of paperwork on his desk with a little sticky note on top. 

“Figured you don’t want any patients again, so I have some more paperwork for you to do. –Sarah” 

He takes the sticky note and balls it up, throwing it into the trash before sitting down and grabbing the first folder robotically. 

It’s been two weeks and twelve hours since Sherlock Holmes threw himself off of St. Bart’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really sorry about ANOTHER hiatus. I promise, I will write and then start posting on an actual schedule. 
> 
> AP Calculus is kicking my ass--I have a D and it's not even quarter yet. I'm very scared. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope this fulfills all of your guys' 'This Scares Him' needs, and I promise that after about another month--filled with writing this story, I assure you, I will have a schedule up on my tumblr [the url is the same as my pen name], and up on here, in the notes. 
> 
> Once again, thank you ALL for reading, and I hope you guys like this. There's still a very heartbroken John, but in the next two or three chapters we might see him crack a smile. Who knows :) 
> 
> Love you all. xx
> 
> -deduction019

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


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